Pigs Gotta Dance

Been trying to write more about my Dad. There he comes before me in joie de vie vision doing a soft shoe in our living room in San Mateo, California to Toot Toot Toosie Goodbye. Then Mom comes into my vision and they spin a smart fox trot around the living room.

Here's what Dad taught me:
A dancing pig always always beats a philosopher.
Work should be fun even though it is work.
It's fun being famous and we should all strive for it.
Trivial, inconsequential, who cares? The thing is to get out tomorrow's column (I never believed him on this point.)
Here's what's important: to dance and sing and play a squawky violin and write and tell stories and laugh in great snoots and spill your glass of wine with every sweeping gesture at the dinner table.
And I know it's true.
But I find tears falling on my keyboard and I can't write anymore.

Why do we grieve?